by Tyler Martin
Sister Merci, congeal at my doorstep
And savor the mercury gathering
Around the edges of its construction.
Thank you, Merciful Woman, for spiking
My earhole with a burning sensation,
But do not forget to keep smashing "like."
I have a problem and ask for your help.
It wipes out my evenings and tarnishes
Morning workouts with aching persuasion:
I need to you strap me into the bed.
Trees cave in to the wind, verdantly blown,
In the same way that I long to submit
To natural forces. If you know she's it,
This game's over, and a new one's begun.
When the putrid air seeps into your couch,
And crumbling circumstances have gathered
Like puke-filled Juggalos fornicating
Desperately in rhythm to your sadness,
Just pump the brakes, Hot Dog! Slow your roll,
Tootsie Pop, and, Cock of the Walk, submit.
The plushest deformity configures
Stagnant demons licking blown tendrils,
Oblivious to the tiny membranes
Stretching boundaries of curious rubbers.
What I mean is this girl is demanding,
And now I see that giving in is life,
And giving up is actual paradise.
So let me get this straight: It's as simple
As that: Man gorges on the blown nuance
Instead of obviously hanging fruit.
A constant state of stress, messily blessed
Past the point of no begin, to the point
Of holy matrimony: There can be
Only one outcome here. Open the door
And let some new air in. Every minute
You're away from her breaks another nail
Against the calcified fabric called home.
My version of her, while slightly askew,
Adheres nonetheless to reality:
We are both perceptions, blood-bathing demons.
Laughing hysterically while taking a dump,
We pause mid-deployment to ogle
The spiders erupting through the floor drain.
Wave upon wave of warmth and affection
Skitter soundlessly across Florida,
Straight into the Confederate heart,
Stripping the south of racial harmony
And forcing screws into throbbing meat cubes.
The choices we make while pinching one out
Reverberate through the sewer system.
Like a traumatized child scared speechless,
I bob and I weave my way down the street.
I hate myself increasingly with each passing week,
But I can't stop wondering why.
In the morning mirror, inquired tenderly:
Are you fucking retarded? A lunatic
With blinders on, hiding from the truth.
Even Hitler had a girlfriend, and morons
Flock to CKS's memorial statue,
tubercular kids whistling past a tomb.
The rage which bubbles beneath the surface
Of my smile is starting to seep from my eyes.
I can also feel my faculties fail,
My tenure explode, reputation fail,
The raw lava hissing inside. Right here,
On the MRT heading to see her,
I can feel eyes glancing maliciously
And hear voices pitched with violent, garbage-
Strewn epithets against my people.
How to translate the logistics of life?
Somewhere north of panic lies the free land,
Where pistols and their targets commingle
Women whose resting expression is that
Of a squirrel sniffing a fart, everyone
Knows you're a rat in a maze of beauty.
I will play your ribs like a xylophone,
Tapping out a melody of madness
That corresponds to panicked rhythms:
Which art thou, pistol frigid or target hard?
The invisible change of which I speak
Is an investment, sight unseen, in me.
There are three kinds of men on Earth today:
The men married to beautiful women,
The men happy to be married at all,
And the rest of the men: "at-will" bachelors,
Forever-alone wallowers, hobos,
Perpetual fuccbois, inebriates
And dreamland warriors. The time is right
To divorce planet wheat from galactic chaff.
Human soul, the seat of reason, invoke
Do I in the name of all things sacred:
Video games, pink bubble gum, headphones
In public, deflecting the arrows flung
From probing eyes with a barracuda
Feeling. My soul is the signal pumping
Through the blood, emptying the garbage juice
Through a filter of sunshine and webbed hope,
The sort of anticipation that steels
Us against the cleansing fire of God's love.